


A Certain Romance

by clumsycopy



Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, F/M, Face Slapping, Humiliation, Killer!Charlie, Knifeplay, Touch-Starved, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, smonophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy
Summary: You’ve been meeting up with Charlie for a while. He’s the only one who can give you what you crave. In exchange, you provide an eager outlet to his frustrations. A mutual agreement. No strings attached, no affection, no feelings. What to do when you want more?Inspired by the @iamakiller RP blog on Tumblr.
Relationships: Charlie Barber/Reader, Charlie Barber/You
Kudos: 9





	A Certain Romance

“Five more seconds to go.” Charlie shifts his wrist to get a better view of his silver watch. His other hand remains locked in place, clasping the column of your neck. He presses harder when the last second ticks by, just as your eyes are fluttering shut due to the lack of oxygen.

The sound of your desperate, feral breaths fills the silent living room. Charlie eases on the pressure, canting your neck from side to side so he can admire the bruises that bloom like galaxies on your skin. When he stands, you long for the proximity of his body, the warmth that always seems to radiate off him.

Your hand still clutches his forearm, you want just a little more of contact, of touch. While your fingers trail down his skin, you hope he’s yearning for you just as you are for him.

The droning routine of your life is flat, nothing worries you, nothing excites you. Except for Charlie. The journey to his apartment is the thing that keeps a smile on your face, week after week.

The smile falters for a moment when your knuckles trail off of the back of Charlie’s hand, falling by your lap.

You look up at him, willing your lips not to quiver, your eyes not to sting with unshed tears. Coals burn on your throat where your voice should be, so you wait, averting your gaze to the immaculate floor. In a few moments you’d be able to stand, fight the dizziness away and drive back to your apartment.

He calls out to you. Charlie uses your name. His voice is so deep, modulated in such a pitch that anything he says is pure silk dripping off his plump lips.

“You improved tonight. You pushed through the pain, even while your desperate little body was shutting down. You stayed put, like I told you to.” He runs his knuckles up the bulge of your throat, crushing your jaw once his fingers touch your chin. “But you know it’s time to go, now. We have rules and I know you’re smart enough to know why we follow them, aren’t you?”

”I know there’s something you want. Maybe I’ll let you have it if you use your words.” He reaches out a hand, hovering inches away from your cheekbone. Charlie holds a laugh at how hopeful you look, trying so hard not to lean into his touch. It’s hopeless to even try to supress the smile that feeds off your disappointment when he pulls away.

”I don’t want to go. We’ve been doing this for sometime now, what do you think of taking a step further? Can I spend the rest of the night here? I just need to rest for a few minutes then we can keep going.” You fling your hands forward to clutch at his leather belt, only for him to step back.

”Why do you insist on breaking the boundaries we defined so well?” He narrows his eyes at you as the corners of his mouth tilt down. Of course, he doesn’t fucking care, but he likes to see you squirm to ask for _more_.

”Please, I-” You should be ashamed at how high your voice soars, at how desperate you must sound, with no will to stand and walk away. It’s quite the opposite, each time he rebukes you is enraging and rousing all the same.

He crouches, leaning closer to hiss at the shell of your ear. ”Shhh… no talking back. Use your words to tell me what you want and maybe I’ll consider it.”

“I want…” _You_. “…more time with you. Please choke me again? This time you don’t need to keep track of the clock. It’s ok if I pass out. You don’t need to wake me if you want to do anything else.” You breathe, savouring the relief that floods upon you. The most intimate, secret fantasies that you had imagined countless times are now concretized in a plea, dependent on Charlie’s will.

He considers you for a moment, and if it were up to you, it would never end. “Lie back. Lean your head against the couch as much as it’ll allow you to.”

Doing as you’re told, you misbehave for just a second, letting out a whimper when you lose Charlie out of your sight and he’s replaced by the ceiling. He doesn’t like when you cry before he lets you.

You’re not left wanting for long.

Something yanks you down by your hips, there’s not even time to react before a body settles on top of you as your head hits the seat of the couch. His sheer weight is sufficient to subdue your breathing. Charlie straddles you, keeping your thighs pinned down by pressing his calf over them. 

His left hand grips your wrists with ease, compressing your flesh with such force, you’re pretty sure he’s cutting off the blood supply. His right hand snaps to circle your neck, tighter than any of the previous times. He pushes his palm on your windpipe, snuffing every last puff of air that you can inhale.

A wild thought flashes on your mind. What if he never stops? You can’t fight him. The battle was lost the moment you walked into his living room. The real threat to your life should knock some sense into you, but instead it makes you throb, fueling the desire to see how far you will go. You shift your head to the side to get a better look at his shadowed features. 

Charlie hisses at you to stay still, coaxing out more wetness with his admonishment. Soon the thin fabric of your underwear is saturated with your arousal, there’s so much of it that it leaks over to your inner thighs.

Pressing them together does nothing to ease off the hunger that aches in your core. Pure bliss explodes in your brain like fireworks, all due to the intimate contact of his hand around your trachea. The tiniest vibration of a moan gurgles on the bottom of your throat, so faint that it should have been missed.

Charlie notices it.

He’s not a man to let anything go by, he pours his undivided attention to everything he does. Even more so when he wants it done the _right_ way. His fingers constrict your airway harder, making stars shine behind your eyes.

Your hands curl into fists, body seizing, thrashing as much as it can in one final, instinctive effort to stay awake. That’s not what you want. You welcome the silent darkness that’s taking your sight, speech and hearing. If you’re fortunate you’ll wake up with the sun on the next day, curled up against Charlie, seeing him in the divine morning light.

The last thing you see is the one you fought the most to keep staring at. His dark, amber eyes…

…and then _nothing_.

Charlie presses two of his long fingers to the side of your neck, searching for the carotid, feeling the insistent pulse thrumming under his digits. He’s not sure if he should be relieved or repulsed. He lets go of you, shoving his hand into his pockets as he observes your unconscious form.

You’re not _her_. You’re at best a tentative placeholder, at worst a little experiment that he humours because you’re helping him learn the limits of the human body.

Nicole had never cared much for anything out of the ordinary, so he sought other outlets.

If he had only found you sooner, he would know so much more about which methods he prefers, how fast or slow he should go. He could practice–as much as possible with a _living_ partner–and he would be a lot calmer, at least to his standards. Why blow up at others when he had a human stress reliever jumping at the chance to be used?

The things you let him do to you… even better, that you asked, pleaded, begged for him to were almost too good to be true. Week after week, he inflicted a whim after another upon your body. 

He had not anticipated the mind games.

Once he picked up on your infatuation it was trivial to lure you in, hook, line and sinker. You hang to his every word, thrilling with excitement whenever he teased a gentle touch, deflating at his harsh rejections.

Charlie likes the dance of getting closer and pulling back, keeping his intentions hidden from you. He knows how hard you try to understand him, figure him out so you can be perfect for him. You are, in the same way one has a favourite tool.

Maybe he should finish this tonight. It’s not like it would end any other way. You’re different from the _others,_ but not enough that it’ll warrant special treatment. You’re his palliative, his plaything, but will never be his _partner_. Not like her.  
  
He’s shown too much of himself for you. That type of honesty has a price that he’s more than willing to collect.

Charlie palms the sharp protrusion on his pocket, sliding out the switchblade he carries with him at all times. He unfolds the weapon, enraptured by how it catches the light in just the _right_ way as he twirls the handle.

Now there’s something he’d love to have inside you.

He kneels by your face, scrapping the tip of the knife along your chest, nestling it right at the base of your neck. It’s stunning the way your breathing drives your skin against the sharp point, almost breaking the surface. One small cut wouldn’t hurt anyone…

Maybe the blood will look prettier if it flows down your between your thighs instead.

The knife glides around your jaw. Charlie’s pressing the flat part of the blade right where he can feel your pulse. His warm pants fan across your face, hand trembling with the effort to hold back. Images of red blink on his mind, of sweet memories when he found himself in this same position… but he didn’t stop.

Where should he cut? Should he wake you up beforehand? Make you watch? See the look of utter terror and betrayal wash over your face? Maybe he should abandon the knife altogether and use his hands, giving you the tender touch you wish so hard for the rest of your pitiful life?

It’s a tempting thought.

As much as he’s craving a more _potent_ release, he can’t afford to do such a thing on a whim. There’s a reason his picks are so few and far between. He needs to be a good father to Henry, and he won’t do that by being locked up like an animal.

The thought of his son comes polluted with bitter memories of his divorce. Of his ex-wife. His knuckles turn white as he clutches the switchblade in his fist, almost snapping the handle in two.

He buries his head on the crook of your neck, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Now is _not_ the time to have a meltdown.

Even in your incapacitated state, you shift closer, seeking the warmth of his body.  
  
Charlie doesn’t even bother folding the blade before shoving it into his pocket, welcoming the small sting of the fresh cut on his thigh. He knows two things. He needs to be alone. You need to go.

The noise reaches you before you _feel_ it.

Pain crackles on your left cheek, spreading like sharp roots of a tree and pulling you from the void.

You find yourself sitting again, in the same position you had assumed not long ago. An unseen entity is keeping you up by the collar of your shirt as your body regains its strength. Images return to your brain in blurred vignettes as your cognitive function resumes. Charlie’s body on top of yours. A strong pressure on your neck. Darkness. Something cold. Whispers. Pain.  
  
“Wake up, _darling_.” Charlie taps your cheek a few more times and then rattles your head around by the root of your hair.

“How- how long?” Your voice rings like stone scraping upon stone, but Charlie gets it, he always does.

“Long enough.” He hauls you to your feet, hovering close to catch in case you’re not stable enough to remain standing.

You seize the moment to grasp onto his forearms, marveling at how solid he is under your palms. It’s intoxicating to stand this close to him, be forced to crane your neck up to meet his gaze. Charlie has no right being so immense, you could spend the whole day gawking at every part of his body.

Tonight, he’s had enough of you.

“As much as I’d _love_ for you to stay a few more minutes, it’s time for you to leave.” Charlie crosses his arms over his chest.

His tone betrays no intention to indulge you once more, you know not to push him. With a meek nod, you turn around, gathering your bag and your jacket. It’s almost a reflex by now; your gaze travels across the darkened hallway, wondering what his bedroom looks like.  
  
An irritated sigh pulls you out of your delusions. _Shit, I’m pissing him off. Not in the good way._ You stagger towards the door, keeping your head down.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Charlie’s voice rises, his tone laced with irritation.

Your breath stops for a moment, heart hammering so fast that you need a second to remember he asked you a question. _This is it._ _It worked, he likes me. He wants me._ Your voice is no more than a rasp, rendered broken, when you answer: “I’m leaving… unless you don’t want-”

“I wonder what’s going on in your life to make you this forgetful,” he cuts you off, nostrils flaring as a redness spreads across his face.

_Oh._

You lift up the light fabric of your dress, folding it over your thighs until you can reach the hem of your underwear. Then, you slide it down your legs, lifting an ankle to pluck the garment away, crunching it under your tight fist.

Charlie closes off the distance between you, extending his huge palm into your direction. You open your hand, letting your intricate, black underwear fall into his grasp. He pinches the cloth between his thumb and index finger, feeling the detailed work tickle his flesh. Lowering his hand, he deposits the knickers on his pocket, pushing the material in until it’s concealed.

Out of the corner of his eye he still sees you. Paralyzed, watching his every movement, hanging onto one last thread of hope that he’ll give the affection you crave.

“ _Leave_.”

As you turn around, looking over one last time at his apartment, you can’t help but ask the question that shrieks in your mind whenever you have to leave Charlie. “When will I see you again?”

“Tomorrow night. There’s this outdoor theater by the docks. I think you’ll love the view.”


End file.
